If I want to write a villanelle, I will.
Even though its structure interrupts itself to rhyme, 
it’s like magic with a hat, a rabbit, and your goodwill.

And if I wish to share my secrets in a poem, I’ll spill.
Do you mind my breaking all the rules? Poets do it all the time.
I will write this villanelle—I will.

I love to stand up in the light, twirl my mustache—whatever fits the bill.
But it’s the cape I love the most. If I never had to tell the truth,
            I’d wear it all the time.
Please—take the hat, take the rabbit. They won’t reveal a shill.

Do you think I’m misdirecting you, over-dressed to kill,
while shuffling words I’ve hidden in my mind?
I guess I’ll have to shape the air and write the villanelle—I will!

I’ll start composing shortly behind this bit of mist. Though chill,
it covers any indiscretions, even if they’re mine.
And if the trick turns inside out—I’ll be in the hat, the rabbit out—
             he’ll hold my ink and quill.

And if he claims to write the villanelle, he’s only looking for a thrill.
While I try to understand the paradigm, 
the poem writes on with quiet skill.
Better than a magic trick—it can make the world stand still.